Zakir grinned, the confidence still there, but amusement most of all. He felt bad for playing with it, but from time to time he enjoyed setting up a situation to gather the feeling of being wanted by her. As if he should only be stealing one heart, even if he already had it. “Oh no, the hearts I steal are solely the metaphorical ones,” he told her. “What is art if not a way to unlock feelings in others. I want to thrust my words out in the world and have people clasp onto them. Find their hearts stolen by my music, feel in them something to aspire too, something they are, something they could be.” He took a deep breath. “But they’ll never understand me fully, even if I were to pour my soul into every vibration of my songs, they can’t hear the truth between the lines.”
Coming from Delhi, Zakir had been taught to act by the rules of the caste system, even if his Muslim father had fought against its beliefs and his uncle had spoken of this American Dream. Zakir knew there was always a social order. But his upbringing had given him the room to reflect, even among like-minded there was differentiation. Even among different castes there was cohesion. He would never fully immerse into Anchali’s world, which was what kept them apart, she would only ever understand his struggles as a child superficially. But despite it, they were kindred souls, two halves of the same star. Did she know the songs of love and longing were often about her? The one he could never have, but would hold onto with all his might.
“Wallah, I shall keep my hands to myself then,” he joked. He met the apology with a smile. Then the offer with a grin. He might be a rapper, a charmer, a criminal by association, but he was also a romantic at heart. His mother believed a man should not cook, his father believed a man should not learn to cook. They looked down upon the idea of him living on his own, without a woman to take care of him. Old traditions, backwards thinking. As if they were not a Muslim and a Hindu married against the odds. So he’d taught himself to cook. After all, recipes were words on paper, and he mastered words. “If you’d say yes. My heart could not take the rejection if you’d not let my food win you over,” he said in return. The charm of his persona met with the softness of the man underneath. The one who tried to hold onto his culture and his heart, no matter the strain.
There was not much to say, knowing her future, whereas his had always been wide open. And despite it, or perhaps because of it, she had been the most important key in his escape. In his coming here. Without her support, her words of encouragement, he would still be in Delhi. He knew he’d come for his art, his future, his words, but perhaps he’d also come for her. Despite knowing it was a fruitless endeavour. But he also wanted her happy. “Perhaps you should meet some of these suitors, to see if you can create a bond of understanding.” Perhaps he should too, cast out a net, find people beyond one-off flirtations and one-night stands. Even if those were so infrequent they could be better looped in with loneliness than anything substantial. “I don’t mind solely being your now, Māśūqa.” he told her. Whatever she would wish of him. Though there was little they could want knowing the risks of their connection. As if there was always glass between them. They could hear each other, they could confide, but they could not touch.
Letting the kettle do its work, Zakir turned to face Anchali completely, his tea ready to steep, wondering at the complete taste that might come from it. He watched her with great care, finding the words of this new song still fresh and forceful in his mind, though the real Zakir is sharp underneath, a little hesitant, a little nervous, even though he’s done this a thousand times before.
“Nobody cares
Until you’re rich
Pretty, dead
Nobody cares
jab tak aapaka
astitv nahin rahega
Who do they think we are
Messed up
paryaapt maanaveey nahin
We’re only here for their entertainment
Fading out on dirty pavement
Getting shot in empty bars
aadar dikhao, aadar
hamaaree maut ka sammaan karen”
It was half done, perhaps not even half, tumbled lines thrust together in Hindi and English, to be rearranged at a later time. The words were there, the flow was there, but he still found the arrangement unclear. He always used English as a base language, after all, that was the language most people here spoke. On top of that Hindi and Arabic were the languages he used for expression, and all the others he knew acted as fillers, as flesh to connect the bones.”What do you think?” he asked.
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